


her soul is a kaleidoscope

by themetgayla



Category: Pitch Perfect (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Child Abuse, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I’m sorry, aubrey is a bitch oof, bechloe’s parents are horrible sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-04-26 07:26:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14397177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themetgayla/pseuds/themetgayla
Summary: Beca steps back abruptly, snatching her hands into her chest. She tries to ignore the guilt that twists in her gut as Chloe frowns, hurt flashing through her eyes. She wants to, she does, but she justcan’t. What would a girl like Chloe want with her? They barely even know each other.“Um, I should get home,” Beca says awkwardly, staring down at her feet. She wiggles her toes absently, not daring to look up at Chloe’s expression — she doesn’t want to see that look of hurt, not again. Especially when she knows she caused it.Chloe hums quietly, and Beca glances up just in time to see her wrap her arms around her middle protectively. “Yeah, me too.” The brunette frowns at the clear reluctance in her tone.





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a short fic that popped into my head last week, and i haven’t been able to get it out since. i’m working on the next chapter of _molecules of you_ but i’m having a bit of a block!
> 
> this will probably have two/three chapters. enjoy :)

Beca hates school.

She has every reason to. She’s just moved from Portland, all the way to Atlanta, three thousand miles away. All because of her old foster family decided she wasn’t fucking good enough anymore. Apparently her “snarky attitude” just wasn’t “what they signed up for”. To be honest, she’s surprised they even kept her for as long as they did — ten years is long time, even if it was just for the money. (Which it absolutely was. It’s _always_ about the money.)

But one of the things Beca hates even more than school, is dancing. She’s has no coordination _whatsoever_ , so she tries to steer clear of any kind of movement beside walking (and occasionally running, but only when she absolutely has to). Unfortunately, because Beca’s a transfer student, her subjects have been chosen for her. When she arrives at reception, a schedule is shoved rudely into her hand, and she’s told to “be on her way”.

One of her subjects is Dance. Fucking _Dance_.

Well that’s one subject she definitely won’t be getting an A in. At least her new foster father doesn’t seem to give a shit about her grades — he doesn’t even give a shit about her. (He’s only doing it for the money, of course, like most of them do. _Them_ , being the completely incapable adults that like to think “good parenting” means providing a roof to sleep under and nothing else.)

Beca sighs as she makes her way to the Dance Studio — apparently this high school is very big on competitions, and likes to go all out when it comes to sports facilities. The corridors are wide and long and can fit _way_ too many people in for Beca’s liking. She prefers to keep herself to herself; she doesn’t talk to people, doesn’t make friends, doesn’t engage. She walks with her head down, hoping no one will notice the her, the new girl.

She knows that being the “new girl” can come with some unpleasant side effects. People seem to think it’s okay to bully her and push her around just because they don’t know her. (And because she’s small, but let’s forget that.) Beca just hopes that her experience here will be different.

It takes her another few minutes to reach the studio and the newly-built changing rooms. There are already dozens of girls there, most in various states of undress, some already changed and hanging outside the doors. Beca’s thankful they’re allowed to wear leggings and loose shirts instead of fancy costumes or some shit.

As the brunette shuffles over to an empty corner of the changing room, she notices two girls, both in shiny black leotards. One, a tall, slim blonde, is standing with her arms folded, a disapproving glare on her face as she talks quietly to the other girl. She’s simply _gorgeous_. Her fiery red hair is pulled into a tight bun, and Beca can see her dazzling blue eyes from across the room.

Before she can register what’s going on, the redhead glances towards her and smiles, her pearly teeth flashing in the bright fluorescent lighting. Her breath escapes her for a second, and Beca swears her heart actually _stops_.

But then the blonde is jabbing the girl’s ribs, and the pretty redhead turns her attention back to her friend.

Beca pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and chews on it thoughtfully, her mind running away with her. It’s only when the dance teacher strides into the room, a clipboard in one arm, that Beca’s spurred into action.

She changes quickly, quickly though to hide the bruises and cuts littering her abdomen. No one notices, thankfully. They’re all too busy gossiping amongst themselves, too aloof to pay any attention to the silent new girl in the corner.

The register is taken — all eyes snap to her when she mumbles _yes_ to her name being called out; she _hates_ it — and they all bundle into the studio. Everyone’s chatting about the coming semester, clearly excited for whatever kind of routine they have to do.

Beca, on the other hand, is dreading it. She sits with her knees tucked up to her chest, digging her nails lightly into the palm of her hand. She stares intently at the tiny red crescents that appear, carved into her pale skin. Biting the inside of her cheek, the brunette sneaks a glance at the redhead sat at the front. She can only see the back, of course, but she can easily make out the defined muscles rippling as the girl moves her arms. Beca tears her eyes away, ignoring the pang in her stomach as she looks back down at her hands.

 _Focus_.

The dance coach — some middle-aged woman in sports leggings everyone seems to _love_ — starts talking, and Beca tries to listen. Her heart is beating a little too fast, her palms are a little too sweaty, and she can’t really breathe, but she’s _trying_. She’s trying to listen, to focus, to stay tuned in. Her vision blurs slightly, colours shifting, faces contorting. She pinches her arm hard enough to elicit a small hiss, and snaps herself out of it.

“—will be pairing up for this routine. I expect a lot from you girls, you’re my best. Now, I’ve taken it upon myself to pair you all as usual, so listen carefully. Amy and Florenicia, Chloe and Stacie, Jessica and Ashley, Aubrey and Rebeca, Denise and—”

“ _What_?!”

“Aubrey, is there a problem?” The woman — Beca thinks her name _might_ be Claire, but she’s not entirely sure — raises a dispraising eyebrow at the blonde and waits for a response. Beca notices that this girl, _Aubrey_ , is the same blonde she saw earlier in the changing room, snapping at the gorgeous redhead.

Beca already hates her.

“Yes! There absolutely is. I will not be paired with that,” Aubrey pauses to glare at the brunette, dragging her eyes over her small frame disapprovingly, “ _hobbit_ over there.”

Beca, unsurprisingly, isn’t hurt at the insult. Aubrey doesn’t know how shockingly bad she is at dancing, but the brunette knows all hell will break loose when she finds out. Fear bubbles up inside her, crawling from her stomach up to her throat, strangling her. The knot of panic in her chest tightens, and she wills herself to stay calm. _Please not here._

She’s not socially equipped to deal with people like Aubrey. People like her, people that think it’s their god-given right to bark orders at others and always have things their way just make her uncomfortable.

“You will work with whoever I pair you with. Rebeca is new, and needs someone good to show her the ropes. Be _nice_ , Aubrey,” Claire snaps, levelling the blonde’s angry glare with a sharp look of her own.

“Ugh!” Aubrey slams her palm down on the polished studio floor, the slap echoing round the room. Beca jumps a little, the noise reminding her of slamming doors and flying fists.

Wrapping her arms around her middle, she tries to shake the feeling away. As everyone around her stands, moving towards their allocated partners, Beca gulps. She pushes herself up from the floor and shuffles towards Aubrey, hoping the trembling of her hands isn’t noticeable.

Aubrey strides towards her, a deep frown carved into her face. Beca finds herself feeling sorry for the girl, despite her opinions about her unattractive attitude. The blonde is clearly one of the best in the class, and she’s about to fuck it up for her. If they fail, it’ll be her fault.

(It always is, if you ask any of her previous friends — if she can count the two other school loners as friends — and foster parents.)

Aubrey looks ready to shout, her green eyes wild, and Beca’s heart races. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles, hoping it’s the right thing to say. It works, because the blonde hesitates and then shuts her mouth, pursing her lips together.

“Let’s just get on with it.”

* * *

Two hours later, Beca’s exhausted and dripping with sweat. It’s warm out as it is, and the dance studio’s top-of-the-range — or so Claire says — air conditioning isn’t doing much to cool her down. Aubrey’s glaring at her, eyes narrowed, cheeks flushed.

“Aubrey, I’m really sorry, I—”

Beca stares, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as she watches Aubrey fall apart. The other girls stop their routines, curiosity piquing as they hear the blonde’s raised voice.

“Sorry isn’t good enough Rebeca! Sorry doesn’t make you good at dancing, does it?” She hisses, stepping forward. Her hands are placed firmly on her hips, fingers digging into her waist as she tries to control the urge to be sick.

“I-I know I’m not good at dancing but I’m _trying_ , I swear. I know I’m a useless piece of shit and—” Beca rambles, tears sliding down her cheeks. Aubrey reminds her so much of her foster father in that moment, and it _terrifies_ her. Panic claws at her throat as she cuts herself off, searching helplessly for the words to finish her sentence.

Aubrey glares at her, clearly unimpressed at her attempts to explain herself. She flings her arms around wildly, her cheeks reddening with anger and her eyes wild. “You call that trying?! Falling over every fucking time you try to turn? Are you fucking serious right now?!”

Beca squeezes her eyes shut, willing the shouting to just stop, willing the panic away. She can’t _breathe_. “Please, Aubrey—”

“No!” Before Beca registers what’s happening, she’s tumbling backwards, a hand pressed tightly to her cheek. It throbs painfully beneath her palm as she struggles to catch her balance, too shocked at what just happened to coordinate her limbs properly. Tears roll down her cheeks, thick and fast, as her shoulders begin to shake, her small frame wracking with sobs.

Beca barely registers Claire’s shrill voice echoing around the studio, ordering Aubrey to leave the room. All she can hear is her blood rushing in her ears, panic coursing through her veins. She’s pretty sure she’s drowning. _Drowning, drowning, drowning._

Suddenly there are soft hands on her shoulders, fingers skimming over her bare arms, tugging her to safety. All Beca registers is the feeling of warmth that washes over her as she’s pulled into a safe pair of arms. She doesn’t know who it is, but it’s _peaceful_ and unlike anything she’s felt before. She turns blindly and buries her head in the crook of the girl’s neck, her tears soaking the warm skin.

Beca winds her arms tightly around the girl’s waist, her hands clawing for something to hold onto. She settles on digging her fingers into the girl’s hipbone, gripping it like a lifeline. Her choking sobs become hiccups in a matter of minutes, the jerking of her body slowly stopping as gentle hands rub soothing circles on her back.

As soon as the reality her current position actually hits her, Beca jumps back. She just hugged a _stranger_ , cried on a _stranger_. _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ Beca hisses at the thought, snatching her hands into her chest as she dares to raise her head.

It’s the redhead.

Beca winces as she drags her eyes over the girl’s face, concern etched into her features. She’s standing, arms hanging loosely by her sides, eyes trained on Beca. The brunette opens her mouth, words dancing on the tip of her tongue. She presses her nails into her palms as she scrabbles to form a sentence, panicking as she realises everyone is staring at her.

Her eyes widen, and a hand shoots to her throat as her breath is snatched away from her. The redhead surges forwards, her hands landing on Beca’s shoulders as her thumbs brush over pale skin. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” she whispers, letting one of her hands fall down to grab Beca’s. The girl raises the small limb to her own chest, placing the palm against clothed skin. “Focus on my heartbeat and breathe with me,” she coaches softly, the words nothing more than a whisper. Beca closes her eyes tightly and lets the redhead’s soothing voice pull her back to safety.

When the brunette opens her eyes minutes later, the studio is empty. The gorgeous redhead is still standing in front of her, their overlapping on her chest. Beca steps back reluctantly, pulling her hand away from the girl’s chest and dropping it to hang limply by her side. “Sorry,” she mumbles, letting her gaze fall to the floor.

“Don’t apologise, it’s okay,” the girl says, poking her tongue out to lick her lips. Beca finds her eyes drawn to the plump pink lips, wondering what it would be like to kiss them. _What? No Beca, absolutely not._ She shakes the thoughts from her mind and tears her eyes away, dragging them back up to the redhead’s eyes.

 _God_ , her eyes.

“Um, thanks,” Beca starts, unconsciously rubbing her thumb over the stretchy fabric of her leggings. As soon as the redhead smiles at her, she starts drumming her fingers on her thigh nervously, desperately trying not to say the wrong thing.

They maintain eye contact for a long moment, the air between them oddly tense. Beca, despite her shy nature, wants to reach out and kiss the redhead, but she knows she definitely can’t. The girl probably has a boyfriend, for fucks sake. She’s probably _straight_ , with a _boyfriend_. _Get it together Beca. Stop thinking about her like this. You don’t even know her, it’s disgusting. She’d hate you if she could hear your thoughts right now._ Beca’s brow furrows as she pushes the thoughts from her mind, determined not to spiral into another panic. Instead, she offers a strained smile in return and hopes the redhead doesn’t notice that it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.  
  
“I’m sorry about Aubrey. She just... she has anger issues. She’s obsessed with things being perfect and things _have_ to go her way. I know it doesn’t excuse what she did, and I’m so sorry. I know she won’t apologise to you though, so sorry on her behalf,” the redhead rambles, waving her hands around anxiously. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and chews on it, waiting for Beca’s response. “Oh, and I’m Chloe, by the way,” she adds.

“It’s fine, it just— it reminded me of something and...” Beca trails off, shuddering at the memory. She’s not ready to open up to Chloe about that yet, so she swallows down her words and smiles weakly instead. “I’m Beca.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Beca.” Chloe smiles widely then, and it’s _breathtaking_. Beca briefly wonders how she’s still standing; her legs feel like jelly beneath her. “So I talked to Claire, and she said I could switch with Aubrey. I’ll be your partner for the routine.”

“R-Really?”

“Of course!” Beca’s heart rate increases immediately at the idea of Chloe helping her, _touching_ her. Her skin burns at the memory of the redhead’s impossibly soft fingers brushing against her arms; how the fuck is she going to cope?

“That’s... great,” Beca says hesitantly, still consumed by her memories.

A flicker of hurt flashes through Chloe’s eyes at Beca’s lacklustre response, and she wraps her arms around her midsection, suddenly self-conscious. “Are you not happy about it?” She asks, her voice edging on distressed.

Beca’s eyes widen at the redhead’s sudden lack of cheer, and she scrabbles to fix her mistake. She will _not_ be responsible for wiping the gorgeous smile off Chloe’s angelic face. “No no, I am, I promise,” she says quickly, stretching her hands out instinctively.

Chloe’s bright smile returns in a flash, stretching across her lips, and Beca melts.

* * *

“Wait, Beca, no— no honey, like this.” Chloe gently grabs Beca’s arms and pulls them out to the sides, trying to recreate the pose she’d shown the brunette earlier.

Beca lets her arms go limp so Chloe can easily manoeuvre them and tries not to focus _too much_ on the feeling of her soft fingers on her arms. It’s all a little overwhelming, if she’s honest. Chloe’s fruity perfume surrounds her, winding round her limbs as the redhead moves. It’s suffocating, intoxicating, hypnotising, but Beca doesn’t seem to mind. She just stands, quietly as Chloe trails her fingers down her arm, saying something about the shape of her fingers. (Beca has _no idea_ what she’s on about.)

“Okay, now try and spin,” Chloe says, standing back to watch Beca attempt (and probably fail) the turn. The brunette focuses on fixing her arms in the position Chloe put them in, and then turns, pushing off one foot.

She loses her balance half way through and tips left, her body twisting awkwardly. Chloe rushes forwards just as Beca rights herself, arms flailing around as she tries to stay upright. “Sorry. I’m so bad at this.” Beca ducks her head in embarrassment, her cheeks colouring as she stares down at her bare feet.

“No, it’s okay,” Chloe says softly, stepping forwards. “Here, I’ll guide you through it.” She moves to stand behind Beca, placing her hands on the brunette’s arms as she pulls them into the right position. Beca’s brain short-circuits, because all she can think about is the way Chloe’s hands are pressed against her arms as she attempts the turn once more.

She isn’t surprised when she tips backwards, knocking into Chloe. The redhead yelps quietly as she stumbles backwards, trying to regain her balance. “Shit,” she mumbles, quickly slinging an arm around Beca’s waist to prevent herself from falling. The brunette is taken by surprise at the sudden movement, but does her best to stay upright, latching onto Chloe’s other arm to help her.

Beca only realises their slightly intimate position when Chloe’s safe, standing firmly on both feet. The redhead’s arm is still wrapped around her waist, their bodies pressed flush together, breath mingling. Beca makes the mistake of looking into Chloe’s eyes; they’re soft and carry a look of adoration that startles her. No one’s ever looked at her with _that look_ before, and it’s verging on terrifying.

_What does Chloe want? I can’t give myself to her. It’s too much. She’d hate me if she found anyway. It’s not worth it._

Beca steps back abruptly, snatching her hands into her chest. She tries to ignore the guilt that twists in her gut as Chloe frowns, hurt flashing through her eyes. She wants to, she does, but she just _can’t_. What would a girl like Chloe want with her? They barely even know each other.

“Um, I should get home,” Beca says awkwardly, staring down at her feet. She wiggles her toes absently, not daring to look up at Chloe’s expression — she doesn’t want to see that look of hurt, not again. Especially when she knows she caused it.

Chloe hums quietly, and Beca glances up just in time to see her wrap her arms around her middle protectively. “Yeah, me too.” The brunette frowns at the clear reluctance in her tone.

“Are you okay?”

“What? Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Chloe’s gone before Beca can say another word, almost tripping in her haste to leave the studio. Beca sighs softly and glances at the clock on the wall, her eyes widening when she realises it’s nearly five o’clock.

She promised Mark she’d be home by then.

It’ll take her five minutes to get changed, and it’s a ten minute walk back to the house. Shit. Beca runs from the room, a knot of panic tightening in her chest. _God, he’s going to beat the shit out of me if I’m late._


	2. chapter two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here’s the second and last part to this fic. it’s pretty angsty, i’m just warning you! enjoy!
> 
>  **tw** : child abuse, self-harm (non-graphic)

Beca barely manages to control her breathing as she fumbles with the button on her jeans, desperately trying to pull them on. She yanks her shirt over her head, keeping one eye glued to the clock, watching the seconds tick by. Once she’s done, in a record of three minutes and forty-seven seconds, Beca grabs her bags and tears through the corridors of the school, blatantly disregarding every  _don’t run in the corridor_ rule.

It’s raining outside, which is just  _great_. Beca doesn’t have an umbrella — she scoffs at the thought of Mark handing her one with a smile on his face. He’d probably just use it to hit her instead. Beca sighs as she steps out into the rain, the fat droplets instantly soaking through her thin shirt. She cradles her bag to her chest — it’s her only one and it’s not waterproof — and breaks out into a run, her short legs moving quickly beneath her. Running is  _certainly_ not Beca’s forte, and she rarely runs for  _anything,_ but now is one of those situations she absolutely has to.

She pulls her phone clumsily from her pocket as she’s running, praying it doesn’t fall from her slippery hands. 5:06pm.  _Fuck_.

Despite Mark’s constant state of inebriation, he has a surprisingly good sense of timing, which could not be more inconvenient. Beca picks up her pace, even though she knows that getting home two minutes quicker than she would if she walked won’t make a difference. Her legs burn as she runs, her chest tight, her strained breaths choking her.

Beca finally reaches her house and stumbles to the door, fumbling around for her key as she does so. She slips it into the lock as quietly as she can, hoping she’ll be able to creep in unnoticed. (She knows her attempts to stay hopeful are futile; the staircase is in direct view of the couch, which is where Mark will be sat, meaty fingers wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle.)

As predicted, Mark yells (read: slurs) Beca’s name as soon as the door clicks shut behind her, his tone laced with venom. The small brunette steps timidly into the doorway of the living room, wincing as the man rises from his chair and staggers towards her.

“Why are you late?” Mark spits, raising the bottle of beer to his lips and taking a large gulp. Beca watches, the knot of fear in her gut pulled tight, as he finishes off the bottle and leers at her. “Answer me, you bitch.”

Beca steps backwards into the hall instinctively, tugging anxiously as the hem of her hoodie. “I-I was at dance practice,” she mumbles, jerking her head to the side as Mark reaches towards her. His fingers skim her cheek, the brief touch deceptively caring.

“Dance practice?” The drunk man grabs Beca by the jaw and wrenches her head to the side, forcing her eyes onto his. The brunette can’t help the terrified whimper that escapes her lips, slicing through the tension like a knife.

“Y-Yes.”

“Or were you out fucking some guy? Hm? That’s what little sluts like you do, isn’t it? What was it? A quickie in the toilets?” Mark sneers at her, his hot, breath ghosting over her neck as he steps closer. Beca’s whole body tenses up at his words and her eyes immediately slam shut because  _shit_ , she remembers that day two years ago all too well.

“N-No, I swear I w-wasn’t,” Beca stammers, flinching as Mark slides his sticky fingers down to her neck.

The brunette doesn’t expect the sharp slap to her cheek, her usually pale skin turning red and raw. She fights the urge to raise her palm to try and calm the stinging flesh, and instead keeps her arms by her sides, fingers curled into fists, nails digging painfully into her palms. “Don’t lie to me,” Mark growls, his eyes blazing with anger. He tightens his grip around Beca’s neck and squeezes, smirking as the brunette’s eyes widen in fear.

Beca’s hands fly to her throat, her nails clawing at the digits wrapped tightly round her neck. Panic rises inside her, choking her as her head falls back against the wall, pain radiating through her skull at the force. “P-Please stop,” she mumbles, the word strained.

She kicks her legs against the wall as Mark’s grip tightens, black spots beginning to cloud her vision. “You deserve this, you  _slut._ ” Beca whimpers as her head begins to pound, her heartbeat thumping wildly in her chest. Tears slide down her cheeks as she squeezes her eyes shut, willing the pain to just  _stop_.

As her vision blurs, Mark’s snarling face swimming in front of her, Beca briefly wonders if she’s dying. Her foster father’s angry growls slowly fade away as she suddenly just  _stops breathing._ She opens her mouth one last time, trying desperately to gasp for air, and then everything goes black.

* * *

The house is dark when Beca stirs, the silence enveloping her somewhat comfortingly. She’s sprawled across the floorboards, her legs twisted awkwardly underneath her, her head throbbing painfully. Beca raises a hand to her neck and brushes her fingers lightly across the bruised skin, wincing as she tries to swallow. She can just make out the hands of the clock on the wall; 8:32pm. Mark’s definitely out, probably at the pub with his “mates”, slowly drinking himself to death.

Beca tries to push herself up from the floor, but her arm gives way beneath her and she crashes back down, whimpering as her rib cage hits the wood. She peers down her body and lifts up her shirt, groaning when she sees purple bruises already forming on her pale skin.

Gnawing aggressively on her bottom lip, Beca crawls across the floorboards and towards the stairs. She should probably put some of that magical “disappearing” cream on her bruises and clean the gash on her calf, but all she wants to do is curl up and sleep.

And so she does.

* * *

The next morning, Beca drags herself out of the house before Mark wakes up. He’s passed out on the couch, draped across the dirty leather, a beer bottle still clutched loosely in his hand. The brunette’s forced to wear a hoodie despite the sudden warm weather — Beca  _swears_ only English weather is supposed to be this changeable — which is just  _great._

She has Dance again today, and she’s supposed to wear a goddamn leotard. Beca has no idea what lame excuse she’s going to come up with in an attempt to keep her hoodie on, because there’s  _no way_ she’s taking it off. Her arms are littered with obvious marks and bruises, and she  _really_  doesn't want to deal with the inevitable questions that would follow. She has six hours to come up with an acceptable excuse, one that Claire — a woman who seems not to take “no” for an answer — will accept.

Fucking  _great._

Beca gets to school way before her first class, but she just  _had_ to get out of the house before Mark woke up. Who knows what would have happened. (Beca knows she’d have gotten another beating, but she doesn’t want to think about it.) Since she has about an hour before the bell rings, the brunette decides to head to the Dance Studio to practice her routine. Although she’ll be alone, Beca supposes it’s better than nothing, especially when she’s as bad as she is.

She feels so guilty; Chloe is  _so much_   _better_ than her, and it’s obvious she’s just dragging the gorgeous redhead down. Beca’s half surprised the girl hasn’t slapped her round the face just like Aubrey did yesterday — it’s not like she makes it easy with her constant clumsy stumbling.

But Chloe’s been painfully patient with her, guiding her through the complicated moves again and again. She’s stood, carefully examining Beca as she dances, making small corrections here and there. But Beca hadn’t missed the way Chloe had eyed the clock every few minutes, fear flashing through her eyes as soon as it neared five o’clock. She hadn’t missed the way Chloe froze occasionally, staring blankly ahead of her, eyes glassy with pain. It’s an expression she knows all too well, because she does it. She knows what it’s like to look at a clock and panic, fear consuming her as mind goes fuzzy and her heart pounds in her rib cage.

Beca grips the hem of her hoodie tightly as she creeps up to the changing room, sighing thankfully when she finds it unlocked. Chewing nervously on her bottom lip, the brunette brushes her hand hastily through her tangled curls and shuffles over to one of the hooks in the corner. She hangs up her rucksack, still damp from the torrential rain she was caught in yesteray, and kicks off her battered sneakers.

As she turns to leave the changing room, she catches sight of another bag hanging alone on one of the hooks — it’s a Michael Kors handbag. Beca has no idea who the bag belongs to, but she assumes it’s one of the “popular girls”; she’s pretty sure they all own designer handbags and walk around with them tucked into the crook of their elbows.

Hoping the bag doesn’t belong to Aubrey, Beca walks slowly towards the Dance Studio, tugging anxiously at the strings on her hoodie in an attempt to control the rapid thumping of her heart. The small brunette pushes the heavy doors open, squinting slightly as her eyes are attacked by the bright fluorescent lights. Beca steps forward slightly and pokes her head round the door, scanning the room to see who’s in there.

It’s Chloe.

The redhead is sat, knees drawn up to her chest, in the middle of the studio, her shoulders shaking with the effort to keep her sobs silent. The occasional whimper escapes her lips, floating across the otherwise silent room, echoing off the walls. Beca frowns, her breath catching in her throat as Chloe lets out a quiet cry of anguish. Hands trembling with nerves, the small brunette steps into the studio and closes the door behind her silently, desperate not to disturb the troubled girl curled up on the floor.

Beca pads across the springy floorboards, her bare feet hitting the laminate silently. Chloe doesn’t hear the younger girl until she folds her legs underneath her and sits down, a few metres away.

“Beca,” Chloe croaks, twisting her head to the side to smile weakly at the brunette. Beca watches, her heart breaking as tears slide down the redhead’s flushed cheeks, her bottom lip quivering as she holds back sobs.

Beca shuffles closer, taking care not to touch Chloe by accident. They sit quietly for a few minutes, Chloe’s heavy, erratic breathing breaking the silence every few seconds. Once the redhead’s breathing slows into soft hiccups, she turns to Beca again and allows her lips to quirk into tiny but genuine smile.

“Are you okay?” Beca kicks herself as soon as the words tumble from her mouth, because  _what kind of question is that_? Chloe’s been  _crying_ , of course she’s not okay. But before Beca can open her mouth to apologise, words bubbling up in her throat, Chloe stops her with a gentle smile. She reaches out and rests a hand on Beca’s thigh, her fingers slowly stroking over the brunette’s clothed skin soothingly.

Beca inhales sharply, and tenses briefly under the contact. Chloe Beale is touching her. On her  _thigh._ Chloe retraces her hand as soon as she feels the change in Beca’s posture, hurt flashing through her eyes as she tucks her hand into her chest, clutching it like it’s been burnt. “I’m fine.” Beca almost believes her, but as soon as her voice cracks on the last syllable, she knows Chloe is lying.

“No you’re not.”

Chloe sighs, running a hand through her fiery curls as she glances around the spacious room, eyes darting into every corner, mild panic welling up in the bright blue orbs. “No, I’m not,” she admits, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she avoids Beca’s concerned gaze.

“Wanna talk?”

“I don’t know you.” Chloe looks down at her hands, rubbing her thumb over the faint creases carved into her palm. She rugs at the sleeve of her lyrca leotard, pulling it down further over her wrists. Beca finds herself drawn to the touch, her stomach churning as she tries to convince herself she didn’t see the edge of purple bruise poking out from under the material.

“Yes you do. I’m Beca Mitchell.” Beca knows it’s a pretty lame thing to say, since Chloe really doesn’t know anything about her, and Beca plans to keep it that way. If what she suspects is true, the redhead really doesn’t need anything else added to her plate. Beca’s not about to be responsible for casting worry upon anyone else. Not that Chloe would worry about her, but—

“There’s more to you than that.” Chloe seems insistent, so Beca just shrugs, seemingly indifferent at the comment.

“Not really.” Chloe shoots her a doubtful look, quirking an eyebrow upwards as she taps her fingers unconsciously on her knee. Beca shifts, tucking her legs round to the side so she’s facing Chloe properly. “You’re not obligated to tell me all your problems, you know.” The words are spoken with a fake carelessness, but a hint of desperation seeps into Beca’s voice, underlying concern lacing her tone.

“But I want to.” Chloe pauses then, and blinks slowly, her eyelashes fluttering against the smattering of freckles under her eyes. Beca watches, mesmerised, as the redhead’s lips curve into a smile, all soft, gentle and slightly timid. “There’s something ahout you, Beca, something that calms me. Do you feel it too?”

Beca’s breath catches in her throat at the quietly spoken words, and she grasps at the thick fabric of her hoodie, squeezing it so tightly her knuckles turn white. “Yes,” she breathes, choking slightly on the word.

Chloe hums and glances away, scratching her nail lightly over her stomach, tracing a pattern Beca can’t quite discern. “I thought so.” Beca nods, because she doesn’t know what else to say. Chloe looks back at her then, her pink tongue darting out to wet her lip. “I-It’s my parents, they want me to do well. Which is fine, but, uh, they’re a little forceful sometimes, I guess.”

Beca’s heart sinks, because she knows  _exactly_ what Chloe means, without having to even process the words. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes before she can stop them; no one as sweet and angelic as Chloe should have to go through that. Beca reaches out and grabs the redhead’s hand, lacing their fingers together, squeezing reassuringly. “I understand.”

Chloe looks slightly shocked, as though she doesn’t quite understand what Beca means, and yanks her hand away. Hurt flashes through the small brunette’s stormy eyes, and she clutches her hand back to her chest, the sting of rejection more painful that she’d prepared herself for. Chloe scrambles to her feet and wraps her arms around her abdomen, tears welling up in her icy eyes as her bottom lip quivers. Beca pushes herself up too, fighting the urge to reach out to the pained girl before her.

Her body aches with the effort, her side burning as she staggers to her feet, swaying slightly as her head spins. She wonders briefly if Chloe notices, but then she regains her balance and folds her arms across her chest protectively.

“Y-You don’t understand. You  _can’t._ ” Beca thinks Chloe’s words might be laced with a hint of venom and a dash of disbelief. A sudden anger washes over her, and her stormy eyes flash dangerously as her fingers slide down to the hem of her hoodie, hands trembling.

Before she has time to regret what she’s doing, Beca yanks up her top to reveal her abdomen. It’s an ugly mess of splattered ugly purple bruises, cuts carved into pale flesh and scars littered across her skin, creating constellations of pain and suffering. Chloe watches, her mouth open wide, as tears slide down Beca’s cheeks, dripping down her neck, soaking her skin.

“I’m sorry, I—”

Beca drops the hem of her hoodie and sighs, holding up a hand to silence Chloe. She drops her head to the floor, staring silently at her feet as the reality of what she just did slams into her. She showed Chloe her years of abuse, years of being beaten, kicked and treated like nothing more than a freckle of dirt on the ground.

Beca doesn’t think she’s ever felt more vulnerable.

Chloe steps forward hesitantly, reaching out towards the small brunette. Beca flinches slightly as the redhead’s hand lands on her bicep, slender fingers curling around her muscle, but she doesn’t pull away. She finds herself leaning into the touch, the scent of Chloe’s fruity perfume enveloping her as she presses herself into the warm body beside her.

“You’re beautiful,” Chloe whispers, the words cutting through the loaded silence like a knife. Beca tenses beside her, lip curling up in surprise at the redhead’s softly spoken words.  _What? Chloe thinks I’m beautiful?_  Beca turns to face Chloe properly, her heart pounding almost painfully in her chest, her blood pumping rapidly through her veins. Beca shivers slightly as she catches Chloe’s nervous gaze, those hypnotising blue eyes knocking down every carefully constructed wall she’s ever built.

Chloe steps forward hesitantly, her bare toes bumping gently into Beca’s, and slides her hand down to the brunette’s waist, making sure to avoid knocking the girl’s battered stomach. She knows from experience how painful it can be. As Chloe’s hand comes to rest just above her hipbone, fingers digging anxiously into her waist, Beca melts. The brunette is barely aware that her facade is crumbling as she watches the older girl silently, her dark eyes soft.

Biting down gently on her tongue, the pain giving her the small boost of confidence she needs, Beca lifts her hand from her side and reaches towards Chloe’s forearm, eyes flicking briefly down to the redhead’s soft pink lips. As soon as Beca catches herself, she drags her eyes back upwards, fighting the sudden urge to turn and flee as Chloe smirks knowingly at her.

They both relax then, tension seeping from their shoulders as they stare at each other, adoration shining in their eyes. But as soon as Beca’s fingers skim over the shiny lycra material of Chloe’s leotard, the redhead flinches, her body jerking so violently that Beca yanks her hand away and clutches it to her chest, stepping back instinctively as she does so.

Chloe looks horrified at her sudden reaction, a deep blush creeping up her neck, spreading across her cheeks and down into her chest. She wraps her arms around her middle, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as she drops her eyes to the floor, avoiding Beca’s questioning gaze.

Beca glances down at her own covered arms, highly aware of the cuts carved into her pale skin, some red and raw, others white and faded. She snaps her head back up with a renewed sense of confidence, her jaw clenched as she stares at Chloe, who’s curled into herself, her shoulders hunched over, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Show me,” she says, the demand soft but firm.

Chloe looks at her incredulously, her bright eyes widening as Beca takes a step forward and extends her arms. The redhead flicks her gaze rapidly between Beca and her arm, panic bubbling up in her chest as she tugs on the sleeve of her leotard anxiously. Beca just nods, slowly, not taking her eyes off Chloe as she reaches out towards the hem of the sleeve. The redhead stands motionlessly as Beca rolls the sleeve upwards, being careful not to press down on anything, the touch light and caring.

Beca fights to keep her expression neutral as she stares down at Chloe’s arm, eyes scanning over the neat lines of cuts, each one carefully washed and cleaned up. The brunette feels almost embarrassed when she thinks of her own arms, still streaked with blood, the cuts messy, jagged and uncared for.

Beca realises she hasn’t said anything for a while, so she clears her throat and lifts her gaze back up to meet Chloe’s. “You’re perfect.” The words catch in her throat as she says them, and she has to urgently blink back the tears forming in the corners of her eyes, but she successfully manages to drag her lips up in a smile and keep her cheeks dry at the same time.

Chloe surges forwards before she really knows what she’s doing, arms winding desperately around Beca’s neck as she presses their bodies together. The younger girl hisses slightly as Chloe knocks into her stomach, but welcomes the embrace anyway, arms snaking round the redhead’s waist to pull her closer.

Their noses bump as Chloe leans in, her eyelids fluttering closed, constellations mapped out on her lashes. Beca splays her hands across the redhead’s back as she brushes her lips against the soft ones in front of her. Chloe melts into the kiss with a relaxed sigh, sliding her hands up Beca’s neck, fingers tangling in the brunette’s curls.

Beca willing parts her lips when she feels Chloe’s tongue swipe lightly over her bottom lip, releasing a small moan as the redhead hums lightly into her mouth. Beca’s hands roam across Chloe’s back as their lips slide together in a gentle dance, like the summers breeze ghosting over a shimmering lake.

When they’re both struggling for breath, Chloe pulls away, her lips stretching into a smile as she rests her forehead against Beca’s, her lips swollen. “Wow.”

Beca grins, her eyes shining brightly as she stares at Chloe. “Wow indeed.”

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed it! please let me know what you thought :)


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